


The Long Goodnight

by e1evenc1ara (ThedosianScholar)



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-19
Updated: 2014-09-19
Packaged: 2018-02-17 23:31:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2327165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThedosianScholar/pseuds/e1evenc1ara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Doctor surprises Clara after her first day of teaching.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Long Goodnight

He’s waiting for her when she gets home.

Clara likes to accuse him of not caring about her personal life—not accuses, really, but it’s an assumption she makes—but the Doctor is fascinated by every single facet of Clara Oswald. Perhaps it had all started when she left him that cryptic message that Christmas Day, the life leaving her eyes shortly afterwards, cutting a sliver of ice into his heart. Everything about her had then become fascinating because it was a clue that would help him solve the puzzle of what she was, who she was, and how he kept meeting her even though she kept dying.

But even now that he knows that she is merely Clara Oswald, an ordinary woman with an extraordinary heart, he is still fascinated by her. And there’s no  _merely_  about her.

He hears her key turning in the lock and hastily turns off the tap on the kitchen sink, shakes the excess water from his hands and dries them on his trousers before dashing into the lounge ready to surprise her. He nearly runs into her in the narrow hallway and she takes a surprised step back, her eyes wide with fright.

“Sorry!” he says quickly. “Just me. Surprise!”

Clara stares at him.

“So, how was the first day?” he asks with a grin. He knows she was brilliant. She even _looks_ teachery, with her hair pulled back and that navy spotted frock she’s got on. He would have killed for a teacher like her when he was a boy.

Clara doesn’t match his grin. Her gaze remains locked with, and then after a moment her lip trembles and she slams her eyes shut miserably.

The Doctor’s features fall immediately. “What? No, no, no—Clara…”

She lifts a stiff hand to her lips, a squeak of an inhalation rattling through her, her eyes rapidly blinking back tears. “I’m sorry, just—wait a moment.”

The Doctor watches her dash into the loo and shut the door with a horrid feeling of disappointment in his chest. Not in her, of course, but in this day for ending in tears instead of celebration.

The bathroom door does little to muffle her pathetic little sobs or the sound of her unrolling the toilet tissue and tearing it to wipe her eyes. The Doctor hovers near the door uncertainly, ready to knock or call her name or just open the door so he can ask what’s wrong, but Clara will come out in her own time. He hopes.

He places his hand high on the wall next to him and tries to look casual when she steps back out, her eyes and nose red, a meek expression on her face that makes her look ten years younger.

“Before you ask again, it was awful and I don’t want to talk about it,” she says, her voice thick from crying.

She lowers her gaze and hugs herself. Her entire posture is so defeated that the Doctor can’t resist pulling her close and enveloping her in one of those hugs Amy always claimed made everything better. Perhaps they do, because Clara wraps her arms around him and sinks into his chest with a sigh for a long time, the two of them propped up in the hallway like two pillars leaning against each other until she pulls back with a sniff.

“Tea?”

He nods. “Yeah.”

* * *

She puts the kettle on and pulls some mugs from the cupboard, her expression grim as she performs the perfunctory act of making tea. It isn’t until she stops rustling about that she can hear the Doctor’s little grunts in the living room. A curious little smile curls her lips when the grunts are followed by the sound of a loud peeling sound, like tape being pulled from the wall. The kettle is just starting to boil when she walks into the next room to find him standing on his tiptoes near the far wall, arms stretched over his head so he can pull down a hand-painted banner that reads ‘Welcome Home, Mrs Oswald.’

She purses her lips in an attempt to subdue the fond smile stretching them, but then dashes over and clamps her arms around him from behind. The Doctor falls against the wall in surprise, the edge of the banner rustling as he lowers his arms to touch the ones snaked around his middle.

“What’s this?” he asks.

“You made me a banner.” Her voice is muffled against the back of his jacket until she pulls back and he turns to face her. “And it’s _Ms_ Oswald, not Mrs.”

“I thought all teachers were Mrs? Well, not the mister ones, at least.”

“Only the married ones, and even then they might prefer Ms.”

The Doctor shrugs with an airy sigh. “To be fair, I’ve got to keep track of centuries’ worth of social customs for your little planet, and they tend to vary from place to place. It’s surprising I don’t muck up more than I already do.”

The kettle whistles. Clara grins at him, heart still brimming with fondness, before turning on her heel and readying their tea. She plops two cubes of sugar into his cup and adds one sugar and a splash of milk to hers, then carries both steaming mugs into the lounge where the Doctor has re-taped the banner to the wall. One end is taped higher than the other, giving it a pathetic, drooping look that suits the sort of day she’s had.

“So, you do you still not want to talk about it?” he asks when she hands him his tea.

They sink onto her sofa and Clara sighs. “I wasn’t very good.”

“Nonsense. How could you not be good?”

She meets his eyes. “The entire class laughed at me, at each other, threw paper and shouted, and when I shouted at them to stop, they said, ‘So what?’” She cradled her mug in her hands. “I cried in the bathroom during my lunch break and tried to make light of it when the head teacher asked how my first day was going. He must have been able to tell it was awful, because he laughed at me too and told me it would get better. I don’t believe him. It was terrible.”

The Doctor wants to hug her again, but they’re sitting too far apart and they’re both holding hot cups of tea. Instead, he reaches towards her and pats her back. Her shoulders relax a little.

“I don’t think I’m going to be a good teacher.”

“Don’t say that. First days are always the worst. It’ll get better.”

“But what if it doesn’t? What if I’m just a rubbish teacher who can’t handle a classroom full of kids? I used to like kids; today I felt like I could smack the lot of them.”

“Clara Oswald, you have faced far more terrifying foes than a classroom full of teenagers. Just picture them as something else; Daleks, for example.”

Clara levels him with an impatient frown. “You’re seriously using your greatest enemy as a substitute for teenagers? How am I supposed to calm down imagining myself in a room full of Daleks?”

“Simple—say something clever so they don’t kill you. I’ve found handling a room full of teenagers somewhat on par with that.”

She can’t help but laugh. It’s small at first, just a little huff that bubbles in her throat until a smile spreads across her lips, a smile she hides behind her tea. She isn’t just smiling at how silly he is; she’s smiling because she _likes_ how silly he is.

“How ‘bout I fetch you some dinner?" he suggests after they sip their tea in silence. "How’s that sound?”

Her head has fallen back against the cushion and her eyes are closed, but she smiles. “That sounds really, really nice.”

“Alright, then. One really, really nice meal coming up.”

Of course he doesn’t ask for her phone so he can order delivery. Clara doesn’t open her eyes until the door to her flat shuts behind him, his footsteps clopping down the staircase in the distance. When she hears the groaning of the TARDIS engines from the lawn, she hums a little laugh and lays her head back against the cushion with a another tired sigh.

He’s right, of course. She has faced worse than a room full of teenagers, but she hadn’t expected it to be so hard. Everything had all been nice and neat and controlled inside of her head, but then the bell had rung and the students had arrived, and the moment she opened her mouth to speak, her hands had started shaking.

That was when they knew. They had already been talking, their energy levels still high after running into her classroom, several of the boys poking and prodding each other playfully before they finally took their seats, but then one erupted in laughter at her nervousness and the rest followed.  _Ha! It’s her first day._

Kids are evil.

She sits up when she hears the TARDIS return. With another tired stretch, Clara stands from the sofa and carries her and the Doctor’s tea mugs into the kitchen to rinse and put in the dishwasher. Once that task is completed, the Doctor arrives with a large paper bag filled with the pungent odours of takeaway Chinese.

“Where’d you get this?” she asks as he starts unloading boxes onto the table.

“China. Best place for Chinese food, believe it or not.”

Clara grins and sits next to him, plucking a pair of chopsticks from the table before grabbing a hot container of sticky rice. They turn on the telly but keep the volume down low so they can chat over it while they eat. Clara finds herself laughing the stress away and soon her cheek is pressed against her pillow, and the Doctor is removing her shoes. She feels disorientated, completely unaware of how she'd gotten from point A to point B. He must have carried her.

“What are you doing?” she says in a hush, lifting her head.

“I was just taking off your shoes,” he said. “I know how you are about shoes on your furniture.”

Clara sits up. “I fell asleep?”

“Yes. Right in the middle of one of my best jokes, too.”

She rubs her eyes, careful not to smear her makeup. “Sorry. Been a long day.”

“Yes, I’d gathered. I suppose I’ll come back tomorrow and we can go out then?”

She blinks in the dim light of her bedroom. “Oh. I suppose we can.”

For the first time she can remember, the Doctor is in her bedroom. It’s late. He’s making plans to take her out, and never before have their outings in the TARDIS sounded more like a date. The lights are low and his eyes have locked with hers, and when he’d removed her boots, she’d felt his hands delicately wrap around her ankles as he slid the shoes from her feet…

“Yeah!” she responds a bit too brightly. “Tomorrow. Sounds great.”

His lips curve into a smile and he plants his feet on the ground so he can lean forward and plop a kiss on her forehead, the palm of his right hand curling behind her head. He doesn’t pull away immediately, but lingers with his breath hot on her forehead as he mutters, “You are brilliant, Clara Oswald. Those little Daleks have nothing on you.”

A tiny laugh rises to her lips and he shifts back, his hand still on the back of her head. Without her permission, Clara’s mind suggests that she lean forward and kiss him, enticing her with ideas of what his lips might feel like and how that light dusting of stubble on his chin would scratch her skin. Now completely lost to the fantasy, she imagines running her fingers through his hair, her lips parting so she can slip the tip of her tongue along the curve of his bottom lip before dipping it into his mouth and moaning against at the feel of him.

She blinks rapidly to dispel the images from her mind and offers him a tight smile. The Doctor also looks rather dazed. It was rather difficult to see in the dim light of her room.

“Thank you, Doctor.”

With a soft smile, he nods and then rises from the bed, the rustling of his clothes absurdly loud for some reason. Perhaps it’s because her every sense is attuned to him; she can still smell his aftershave, a scent she’s come to associate equally with comfort and insanity. He’s almost out the door when—

“Doctor.”

He turns.

Clara rises from the bed, unsure of what she’s doing. She crosses the space between them, her heart racing, but instead of… whatever… she jumps up and wraps her arms snugly about his neck, her face buried against the collar of his shirt. A deep, silly giggle rumbles in his throat as he lifts her so that her toes are dragging on the ground. He sways side to side with her in his arms before lowering her back to the floor, and she regrets the loss of contact immediately. She keeps her hands at his elbows, and his palms come to rest at her waist.

“Tomorrow,” she says.

“Tomorrow,” he agrees.

She bites her bottom lip, grinning. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Clara.”

Her eyes drift to his lips, her thoughts getting the better of her again, but when she forces herself to meet his eyes with a tight, friendly smile, she’s surprised to find him staring at  _her_  lips. His gaze snaps to hers and they both laugh awkwardly, the pair of them hovering in the doorway to her bedroom. Neither in nor out.

“I’m probably going to be rather tired tomorrow,” she says, her voice softer than it should be.

“Should I come another day?” he asks. “Time machine. I can pick you up anytime you’d like.”

“No, come tomorrow,” she says. “Just take me somewhere I can relax for a week or two before sending me back.”

“Whatever you wish,” he replies, and once again he’s placing his hand on the back of her head and leaning down to kiss her forehead. He chuckles when he rights himself. “Are you normally this short?”

She swats his chest lightly, leaving her hand there. “You took off my heels.”

“ _Ah,_  I thought those shoes had an interesting shape. Height modification.”

Now they’re just staring. They’ve already said goodnight, so neither of them knows what to say next, or if anything even needed saying.

It’s silly, thinking of the Doctor like this, and she reckons she’s just tired after a hard day and the idea of a little comfort is at the forefront of her mind. But she should never, ever, consider  _that_  sort of comfort from the Doctor. That would so silly… _So silly_.

“What’s silly?”

_Ah, said that last bit out loud._ “Um,” she laughs awkwardly. “Staying up so late when I’ve got to get to work early tomorrow.”

He stands up a little straighter. “Right. Well, I’ll see you tomorrow then. I’ll take you somewhere nice and relaxing… Are jungles relaxing?”

Clara’s lips twist into a smile as she attempts to scowl at him. “ _No_.”

He’s starting to grin. “Ancient Rome, time of the warlords? You know, Sulla put my name on one of his proscription lists…”

“I don’t doubt it. I’d rather not go anywhere where I might get attacked by wild animals or bloodthirsty Romans.”

“See, it’s interesting you made a distinction between the two…”

She laughs and pushes at his chest so that he has to take a step back out of the door. “Get on with it, you.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She grabs the handle of the door and leans against the doorjamb, a dopish smile on her face. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” he whispers, smiling at her for a moment before turning and walking around the corner to her front door. It clicks behind him and she hears him sonic the lock, and once she knows he and his Time Lord hearing are out of earshot, she releases a frustrated sigh and allows her head to fall with a _thunk_ against the doorjamb.

She knows she's being smart, but there's a part of her that's a little disappointed she hadn’t asked him to stay, hadn’t tried to… something.

“Just what exactly is it you want, Clara Oswald?” she asks herself before getting ready for bed.

She has a feeling she already knows.


End file.
